The Feel of a Blade
by Maglor Makalaure
Summary: Fëanor makes his sons new swords, and Maglor wonders if the world is falling to pieces.


**A/n: This is not slash.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own _The Silmarillion_.**

**Many thanks to Mornen for being my Beta.**

**The Feel of a Blade**

When I first held a longsword, it was like touching ice.

I ran my finger along the silver hilt, carved in the likeness of a wolf's head. Its eyes were polished, blood-coloured gems. Every detail was moulded to perfection – but it would be; this was Father's work, after all. Nothing he made could speak of any flaw.

I shuddered slightly at the snarling expression of the animal and instead shifted my finger to the fresh steel. When it was being forged, it was red like fire, mimicking its maker's restless spirit. Now, it was cold to the touch, almost numbing my flesh. I felt the edge of the blade and gasped softly when it sliced my finger, drawing beads of crimson. I realised then that the sword itself was merciless – and needed a merciless master.

"This is not a toy," said Father as he looked at my expression. "This is a weapon – it is meant to kill." The wind stirred his black hair, bound in a glossy plait. We were standing in his garden, well away from the house and close to the low hills, where no one could hear us. The heavy scent of dewy grass and wildflowers pervaded our noses.

"I know," I replied quietly. For most of my life I had wielded a hunting-sword and a bow, using them atop horseback as if it was second nature. My brothers and I had been brought up to fight; our athleticism was not a hobby – it was a way of life. Broken bones and open gashes were common among us, so much so that a fracture of the ribs was not deemed very serious; we were rowdier and tougher than most.

"But it is not like your other swords," continued Father, making me raise my eyes. "This is stronger – you use it with one hand." He took a step forward almost too eagerly. "Try it out."

I recoiled slightly. "On what?"

He raised his own, newly forged sword, with a round black pommel decorated with gold. "Spar with me, Makalaurë."

Obediently, I set my legs apart and bent my knees, glad I had not changed out of my riding clothes; I had gotten here only a short while ago, in response to a message sent by the High Prince nigh on two days ago, urging me to return to his house for a day or so.

I lifted the tip of the sword with my finger, getting used to its weight. I had duelled with Father several times in the past, though those sessions were more for practice and play than anything else. Rarely had I ever come close to beating him, but while he was strict, he never tried to harm me or any of my brothers.

"Do not try to be gentle," he stated, his sword not even wavering despite being held with one arm for some time.

"I won't," I replied, not thinking much of it. He had told me this before.

He took my by surprise when he came suddenly at me, brandishing his blade with a frightening control. I only just managed to block his attack, else he would have sliced open my belly. I leapt back, confused. Never before had I felt that my own father had tried to kill me while sparring.

"Fight," he said now, "as if you want to send me to Mandos."

"Father," I said evenly, holding my ground, "I can do many things, but bearing ill will towards my sire is not one of them."

"You will do as I say, Makalaurë. I forged the sword you hold only for you. You will not repay me with disobedience." Before I could open my mouth to answer, he attacked once more. His sword sang through the air. It cut like his eyes.

There was nothing I could do but focus on our blades. I had no time even to be frightened. This fight required my full concentration. Father was stronger than me, but I was faster. When I think back on it now, I realise this probably saved my life.

Eventually we stopped, and I hunkered down and leant against my blade, breathing heavily. Sweat dripped down my chin and fell on my shoes, already caked with dirt and crushed grass. The force of Father's near-malevolence was slowly sinking into my mind, and I could not meet his eyes. I heard him stick his own sword into the ground and sigh.

"I have raised my sons well."

I finally lifted my head, trying to conceal my disgust for his satisfied expression. He placed a hand on a cut marking his arm; his sleeve was soaked crimson from the wounds I had given him. My own tunic could never be worn again, so soiled was it with my blood. I looked away.

"Look me in the eye, Makalaurë."

I did not obey. Father crouched down and lifted my chin with a finger, and for the first time, I saw a glint of madness in his gleaming grey eyes. He had always been fey; many times I could not understand him. I certainly disapproved of his rudeness when it came to his step-mother's side of the family. But it had never been so bad that anyone had to interfere. Now, however, I felt even our wise mother could not restrain him.

He brought my face closer to his and said, "Will you give me your full loyalty..._Makalaurë_." It was a demand, not a request, and somehow I felt the repercussions of refusal would be terrifying.

I nodded once, and his fist went to my hair, gathering strands and tightening almost threateningly. "Are you not brave enough to speak, my son?"

"I give you my loyalty, Father," I said, though they were hollow words, scarcely meant even for the moment. They sounded insincere to my own ears, but Father let go of my hair and stood up. "You are the second I have sparred with," he said, turning his heel and walking back to the house. I had no doubt the first was Curufinwë. "The next will be Tyelkormo, and after that Maitimo. Do not tell them – I will go to them myself." He placed his sword over his shoulder and disappeared around a grove of trees.

For a while I sat in the garden, dazed with the loss of blood and with my father's newfound strangeness. Then I got up, swaying slightly on my feet, and followed him.

After a long bath, I got my wounds treated by one of Mother's women – the cuts were not major, but bad enough to sting profoundly – and went to my old chamber for a change of clothes. Wincing in pain, I took out a fresh tunic and a ribbon for my hair, and carefully put them on. As I was about to leave, I caught sight of my sword lying on the bed. It lay innocuously, glittering in the light that streamed from the tall windows. I left it there.

As I was saddling my horse, Carnistir sauntered into the stables. He raised his brows when he saw me. "Makalaurë!" he cried. "When did you come here? Are you not going to stay a while?"

"Father sent a letter," I said grimly, in no mood to talk despite the fact that I had not seen him for almost a month. "I am leaving now. Give my regards to Mother and the rest." With that I swung onto my horse and left, not once looking back. I was eager to return to my own house in Tirion. On the way, I decided I would not to back to my father's house unless the need was urgent.

* * *

It made no matter; Father's mood grew fouler each passing day, and often he would insist on me coming to his house for no reason save to spar and perhaps lecture me on the ineptness of the Valar. His temper began to wear on me. He was using me as a rag-doll to vent his anger on because no one else had the patience to listen to him. It shames me to admit this, but till date I have had trouble refusing people anything.

One day I was sitting beneath a white-plum tree in my father's gardens, sighing and holding close my slender sword, still in its scabbard. I pondered over its beauty and its deadliness, feeling its weight in my hands. _Surely such a thing should not be beautiful_, I thought._Even if used for defence, the primary purpose of the sword is to kill. Such an ugly motive should not be hidden behind gold and jewels and empty promises of glory_.

I sighed and placed it against the gnarled trunk of the tree, giving my attention to the pale flowers on the boughs above. One, fully bloomed, broke off with the breeze and drifted down into my lap. I picked it up and brought it to my nose, breathing deep and closing my lids. How I longed to be a child again, when my family was not concerned with dark tales and petty rumours and whispers of war. Our lives were that of easy happiness, filled with the giddy laughter that often accompanies good wine. With games of chess and weeks of wandering great Valinor, sleeping under the diamond-bright stars and plucking strings of the harp. Or perhaps a few lazy nights with our cousins in Tirion, talking and tittering till our throats were raw and our eyes tired.

I let out a breath, lowering the flower to my lips and opening my eyes, unwilling to accept reality.

"Is the bard enjoying his solitude?" came a voice from nearby. Curufinwë stepped out from behind a tree, a sword in his hand and a mocking smile on his face. In the past few years he had grown so alike to Father that, if one stood at some distance, it was easy to mistake one for the other. Curufinwë of all my brothers had been most taken with Father's recent obsession with rebellion.

"He is," I replied. "And he wishes to be left alone."

"Why, you are becoming a recluse like Moryo!" He inclined his head to one side. "Would you like to spar, brother? If you have time enough to sniff flowers, you should work on your skills as a swordsman." He punctuated the last word with a short swing of his sword.

"My skills," I replied coolly, dropping the flower, "already far exceed yours in everything save linguistics."

"Why, you – " Curufinwë gritted his teeth, though he could say nothing in return. He may have been Father's favourite son, but I was easily the most skilled.

I straightened when I saw him unsheathing his sword – its hilt, unlike mine, was made of gold, and resembled an eagle spreading its wings, its eyes of bright jade. He pointed the blade at me threateningly. "Get up, brother," he snarled. "I'd like to see your expression when I beat you to the ground."

I rose to my feet, seeing no alternative; it would have been an unwise move to turn my back on him. "Must you pick a fight?" I asked, drawing my own sword.

He did not answer my question. Instead he looked at my blade and laughed. "Mine is the only hilt made with gold – Father clearly favours me over the rest of you."

"Should I care about this?" I asked wearily. "I already know you are his favourite. It won't matter if you rub it in my face. It's too old to bother with."

"Makalaurë!" he cried angrily, lunging at me. I was prepared to dodge, but someone caught Curufinwë's collar and hauled him aside.

"What is all this?" said Maitimo, clutching our brother's tunic like a vice. Neither of us had noticed him approaching. "Why are you attacking him, Curvo?" Maitimo was the only person aside from Father that Curufinwë was remotely afraid of, and he muttered, "We were just having a small sparring match."

"If it was just that, you would not have looked like you were trying to kill him," replied Maitimo dryly. He let go of the collar, narrowing his eyes. "I know you well, Curvo." He stopped speaking then, letting the silence do its work. Eventually Curufinwë sniffed, tossed back his plait, and went away, presumably to sulk. Maitimo let out a short sigh and turned to me; I could not bear the look in his eyes.

"Everyone's like that these days," he said, his dark copper hair falling into his eyes.

I brushed aside the strands with two fingers. "Yes, but we must not let it upset us too much."

"You are living away with your wife," he replied, sounding like he wished he had a home of his own – or that he could move in with me. I'd have enjoyed his company, but I knew Father would not let him come.

"Yes, but half the time I am here, so it makes little difference."

"You have no idea, Makalaurë," he complained, clutching his head as if in pain, "what it is like to live under this roof these days! I cannot talk to anyone save Mother, and perhaps the twins, but Mother is becoming quieter and quieter, and the others…well, I hate to say this, but I'm not very close to them." He stopped for breath.

"Maitimo," I said, suddenly filled with emotion. I put my arms about him, pulling him into an embrace, and he rested his head on mine. It was as if we were children again, but lost in a deep forest, with no notion of where we were or which way we were meant to go, vulnerable to the beasts that ate nothing but raw flesh. I could feel his heart beating steadily, could feel the rise and fall of his chest. His hand grasped my hair, like the way Father had done some months back, but Maitimo was far gentler.

"I do not know what to do," he said, and his voice nearly broke my heart. "Father has forbidden me from seeing Findekáno even. I have no idea what is happening in the king's palace." Maitimo had always enjoyed being well informed about our palace and the city; often he boasted of attending talks at the palace and hence of knowing beforehand what changes would take place in Tirion or at court.

At length we both sat down on the damp ground, gazing at the fields. A butterfly landed on the tip of my ear, and I did not realise it till Maitimo pointed it out. I let it be, though. I had no reason to wave it away. I asked, not looking at my brother, "Maitimo – do you enjoy wielding a blade?"

He plucked a small yellow flower carelessly from the ground, twirled it between his fingers, and said, "I do. But I do not like the thought of using it against fellow Elves. Hunting, sparring – these are things I enjoy and heartily engage in. But to kill for the sake of killing – never." He suddenly started. "Why, do you?"

"No," I returned, taking the flower from him and placing the stem between my lips. "I feel, though, that if I am not careful, I will become immune to the guilt that comes with killing. Weapons are dangerous things. I do not think I will ever grow fond of them – or perhaps I am afraid I will, so I keep telling myself I will not."

The butterfly suddenly fluttered away into the treetops, and once again silence lapsed between us. At length, when Laurelin began to wane, Maitimo stood up and held out a hand to me. "Come," he said. "We should go inside. Food will be laid, soon."

I took his hand, feeling its familiar warmth. "Dear brother," said Maitimo, the evening light reflecting in his limpid eyes, "how I miss you."

I thought, "How I miss the dimples in your cheeks when you smiled like the Light of Laurelin. "For a few moments I gazed at him with pursed lips, then got up, still holding my sword, and said, "Let us go inside."

* * *

**Notes:**

**Makalaurë - Maglor**

**Maitimo - Maedhros**

**Curufinwë/Curvo - Curufin**

**Carnistir/Moryo - Caranthir**

**Findekáno - Fingon**

**Feedback appreciated. :)**


End file.
